Needs Title
by Lexopolis
Summary: Scipio is one confused boy. Now if only Prop could stop being so dang pretty. Scipio/Prosper slash
1. Chapter 1

Prosper was, in fact, a mild-mannered bare-teen of incredibly placating and mature nature.

He would swing his feet a small, polite distance while sloppily chowing down on Spaghetti and spicy sausage; mouth open during bites to showcase the slightest rebellion of childhood, breathing in heavy fumes of garlic, sauces and fresh baked breads while the morning sun broke clouded skies to hit dusty windowpanes leering into the humble cafe.

And if Scipio would glance across the table, more times than strictly necessary and certainly not at the beautifully-bone-alined and winter-girl thin Caterina, well, twelve-years-old was a good year for sexual confusion. Scip was alot of things, but unambitious certainly wasn't one.

The matron stood tall, white-washed apron a sweeping motion against formally-lanky hips, and Scip dragged stool, an awkward screeching sound down and away from his self in this weird attempt to getbackbackawayfromitall.

Prosper's brown angel hair sweeped around hard, flopping back around his air like hairspray with a magical component. His clear blue eyes narrowed in confusion; and Scip suppressed the downpour of diminishing confidence at such a negative expression.

Scip cleared his throat, an attempt to deepen out the sound and appear more mature than his measley black-high-heels could illusion him to be, and spouted, blasted on the high of thought, "You look good today Caterina".

The girl in question shot up, confusion overcasting soft thin skin as her out-of-place-smile flashed quick and unsure.

She widened her lips quick, no wishy-washy actions as though she actually cared much of what he thought; uttered a near-condescending "Uh, thanks."

He could hear the unheard question; "It's just Hornet, has always been Hornet", and couldn't help the turmoiled righteousness as he's always liked her, found her pretty, wanted to be her friend, she is his friend, but not the way she's_ Prosper's_ friend.

And perhaps, by the way she was hanging on to his best friends' every word, she hadn't truly heard all the words Scip hadn't said. Nor all the ones he thought she meant.

Looking at the curly-haired boy, all boyish looks and incorrigible trust, he thought, "If I was in her place, I wouldn't notice anyone else either."

Scip pulled his birds mask around his neck and frowned, padding feet against indoor stone as Prop followed him with off-and-concerned-eyes.

He already didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

"Once upon a time, when the night was still young- Well fuck you too buddy!"

The pinched-and-raspy voice of a pink-cheeked Riccio screeched, orange-fly-away-hair standing on edge against the howling laughter of his friends.

Prosper buried his head, sweet and sly in the hollow crook of Hornet's shoulder, staring straight across the red-velvet theatre to meet Scip's eye under lowered, sparkling lashes. A conflicting, sweet summon from a selfish wanting boy while the sounds of ridiculous fairytales and ghouls passed the mouths of simple-minded children.

The darkette in question shifted in his seat, refusing to get near while the pretty, statuesque girl wrapped round the boy he wished he had.

It was a surprise then, when Mosca; of abnormally quiet and unassuming nature; spoke up in lapse of silence, a hushed, warm tone. "Happy Birthday Prop", he slowly smiled.

The lank brunette gently lifted off his female friend to pad past blanket-covered comforters and raggedy-old-toys.

He swept self-consciously by, failed attempts to stifle his steps which brought naught but his own winces, and outstretched arms in the angled, awkward manner only a newly turned pre-teen could manage.

Scipio followed his movement, trailing all over the lengthed back like an overprotective parent would examine their child, lip-cocking the slightest bit at a near-unnoticeable bump.

"Thank-you", Prop murmured into the dark boy's white shirt, before Scipio beckoned him over and hauled leaking weight into his lap.

Lifting head, Scipio cast a regretful stare toward his guests; easily brushed off by friends far to used to this. Riccio wiggled his brows in the most crude, suggestful way.

Scip rolled his eyes in response, and nodded toward Mosca who grinned back; Hornet's lazy salute.

Dark eyes watched heavy as they stood in turn to leave; mindful of the grown-up actions they were thought to do behind closed doors.

After all fledding had been done, shutters blinded and a tall tease settled firmly in lap; the young Massimo unlatched Prosper's back with grease-covered, uneven gloves and set to work fixing his mechanical boy.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So very sorry for the delay. Thank-you to all who have reviewed/followed/favorited, and please; if anyone has any ideas or suggestions for this story, feel encouraged to type them in. I always love to hear your thought, and they may even help majorly shape the course of this fic.  
Without further ado, chapter two of "Needs Title". . .**

"I want to go outside", the oddly-provocative brunette announced.

Scipio paused, staring down his coin-operated boy in lackadaisical sincerity. He faltered his hand from where a screwdriver loosely dangled and paused, mouth vapidly interchanging through a showing tongue and wary teeth.

Cautious, as though to spare Prosper's feelings as delicate as the oil running between literal-ivory legs, Scip vouched, "I don't believe that would be wise". He almost went on with 'friend', except for the fact he isn't sure that properly describes them anymore.

Not when dipping a hand to catch cascading oil creates a tinge in the soles of his feet and this boy, species technicalities aside, is a _boy_.

But then Prop climbs, dark curls bouncing and nimble as always into pseudo-parental arms, covered by black-and-white striped cotton and tan, venetian skin.

And Scip falls, like he always does, into a mechanical boy's (but not unfeeling, never unfeeling) guarded, fierce smile. He is ever so lovely.

Nodding, Scip takes his hand, unlocking an arm most regretfully from the boy's lithe back and heaved gently to bare feet. For Prosper is his boy, through and through. Even if a certain mask-wearing vigilante isn't sure, as of yet, in what manner.

"Let's go outside".

* * *

The moment they enter crowded streets, golden lines stream in from the tops of lion-entrusted statures, and our boys bask in the glow of Venetian light.

Prosper flies at the sight of air-encrusted pigeons, and Scipio rushed to catch his arm, pull him close. It would not be wise to let him loose, even if the intense gaze and one-track-mind endears him evermore.

But then he doesn't have to worry about flyaway brunettes.

The fair's in town.


End file.
